Taking it as Read
by only-harry
Summary: Chasing the train to Kings Cross, following the car as it navigated it’s way to the suburban outskirts of London, hovering in the corners of every room she entered. Hermione's afraid of love. Oneshot.


Taking It As Read

Disclaimer: Though the specific circumstances are mine, the characters and their past are all JK Rowling's.

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Hermione was known for her books. Whenever her classmates pictured her in their mind she was always holding a book, reading a book, even sleeping with her head resting on a book. Having such a bookish nature had encouraged several traits to flourish in her. So many books meant she had to organize them, which carried over to the rest of her life. Because her books were so precious to her, she would _never_ dog-ear a page, mark a page with a side of the dust cover or even use the beautiful, perfect ribbon attached to the spine. She always had a supply of bookmarks with her, no matter where she was. This may have influenced her motto -- "Be prepared". But the most important thing her books had taught her was to look for confirmation, don't trust just one source, keep looking until you had more than enough evidence to support your claim. Maybe that was her downfall.

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Sometimes she felt like a thoroughbred horse, brought up for her mind, not or looks or emotions. Until she turned fifteen, she'd never thought about it, but from then on it was a constant niggle. She knew there was nothing wrong with brains but she also craved balance. She was too logical, analytical. She couldn't trust her feelings if they didn't make sense, though feelings seldom do. Generally she invented feelings; rational, convenient ones.

He was kind, gentlemanly, smart, well brought up, and for that matter, rich. He could set her up for life, put her on the right path. She knew she would not be unhappy. Should a girl be thinking about life decisions at fourteen? Perhaps not. But something had to cover up the less desirable feelings for the less desirable person. _He_ was pig-headed, lazy, argumentative, disorganized, and even though it shouldn't matter, poor. Love doesn't stop to check your Gringott's account balance, but for her, security came before love. After all, security could be proven and guaranteed.

But, of course, fate dealt her a nasty hand.

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History of Magic was never to her the chore it should have been. She sat, deeply immersed in her heavy text book, finding the chapter about the Magical Creatures Cross-Breeding Act of 1392. "… aftere the moste distressing incidente involving the deadly combinatione of a Chimaera and a Acromantula, Ronald Hargreaves, drafted an acte declaring that no man maye breede two species withoute a Ministrie license..." Potions was more of a priority, of course. That's why she snapped her book shut on the word that seemed to be glowing on the heavy parchment. Potions. "… the Clarity Concoction was first created by Edmund Weasley..." But it was nearly eight, she knew she needed sleep. She must have been tired, she left her books far closer to the fire than was quite safe.

The dormitory was never a good idea. One of her messy dorm-mates seemed to have tried to throw out some parchment, but missed the waste-paper basket. Picking it up she recognized Lavenders signature pink ink. "… so do I have a chance with him or not?" and Parvati's reply "… of course you do, but taking Ron's not really fair on …" and suddenly she was really tired. Tired to the point of tears.

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Was this how life was always going to be? Upside down and inside out. She'd never really known what to do as a Muggle. Her logic didn't quite click. Magic, when it came, was like a breath of fresh air. Despite her obviously lacking background every thing came so much easier to her. After the first shock, things like goblins and unicorns seemed to make so much more sense. But now, oh, now magic only reminded her of one thing. One person. And the faster she escaped him, the better.

The holidays couldn't have come quicker. This year she was going home and was glad. She could even stand the to-ing and fro-ing of numerous relative reminiscing over how much she'd grown and how they never saw enough of her. Anything to get away from that night and those people and the confusing mess of feelings the memories conjured up.

But somehow, it all seemed to follow her. Chasing the train to Kings Cross, following the car as it navigated it's way to the suburban outskirts of London, hovering in the corners of every room she entered. She was convinced that everyone could see it, the pink erumpent in the corner, waving a huge sign; 'Hermione fell in love, Hermione got her heart broken, Hermione let her feeling's get the better of her'.

So, she clung to whatever reading material she could get her hands on, mainly cookbooks. Her parents were so happy to have her home for a few days, they wouldn't let her out of their sight and the three of them spent hours in the kitchen. Unfortunately the books didn't seem to help her. After reading yet another recipe beginning with 'First, take one sprig of lavender' she snapped the book shut and glared out the window. She'd never been much of a cook anyway.

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Another year, another futile attempt to interest Hermione in clothes. As her mother dragged her around Muggle London, buying her bags of clothes she didn't like and wouldn't wear, she thought. Her life was in constant danger now the war had started. After these few precious days she might never see her parents again. The more she thought, the more she realised her fate. She was a Muggleborn and Harry Potter's best friend. She was effectively dying even now. Closer and closer to her demise. And wasn't death a time to be dishonest in order to make the ones you love happy? So suddenly, without intending to, she asked her mother if they could look for a pair of shoes next.

Eyes roaming the shop for something sensible and affordable, her eyes lighted upon a pair of flat, plain, brown, admittedly dowdy shoes. She headed straight for them and picked them up. Underneath was stapled a small piece of paper stating the other colours, the other sizes, the price and the name. 'Roonil Wazlib'. Apparently one could have too many pair of shoes. Nothing could have kept her in that shop.

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Years later she looked back on the wasted time and the obvious signs and wishes she'd done something, anything, instead of waiting for years in vain. The signs don't leave her, they follow her even now, but they're no longer unwanted. In all the Magical villages she travels through she stops to read the War monuments, just because she knows that the first name she reads will be his, and it's still a sign and they're still right even though they can no longer truly be together. Despite everything she and they have been through, that's all she'll ever need to keep going.

♥

A/N I'm not too sure about this fic. I kept coming back to it in different moods so the continuity isn't fabulous but I'm quite proud of coming up with the concept. The shoe thing actually happened to me. Incidentally, I don't think Ron will die in the "Final Battle", it just seemed to fit better. Anyway, this was my first fic so I hope someone enjoyed it.


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